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The Detroit Writers' Guild 18600 Conant Avenue Detroit, MI 48234 |
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EXCERPTS: The Street Dance By Robert K. Jones They were playing "Red Rover," and all of his earlier thoughts had been lost or covered by the joy of the game. Until now. She had brushed against him while attempting to break through the human chain. He had been bumped, and pushed, and even knocked down before. But this time, he was brushed by her. An odd shove, firm yet soft, but lacking the object frenzy of "Red Rover." The thought that it was a careless encounter, an accident, was crushed when she bumped him again. He felt a new sensation, something both scary and fine. It rose from the pit of his stomach, dull at first, then bright and went straight to his head. An instant of indescribable beauty held him breathless as his body responded to a feeling, many feelings, each charged with a vague delight, swelling and falling in mysterious intensities. His mind was reeling and he fought to understand what was happening to him. An odd warmth bubbled across his once cool limbs. She brushed him again. Now he sought her out, encouraging the opportunity for her soft breasts to graze his chest and hands. He was delirious, a ragged, airy creature floating between deliberation and desire….
The Encounter By Peggy A. Moore Tanya motioned to Karen to move over as she climbed in and settled in the front seat on her cushiony hips causing Randy to release a deep sigh as he stared transfixed at this "black beauty." A woman, who was rumored to be one of the richest women in Michigan ¾ made possible by investing the money of her trade wisely in land and real estate.Her scent of jasmine and frankincense quickly filled the interior of the truck's cab, quieting the smell of road dust and motor oil, and at the same time prompted Randy to grip the steering wheel self-consciously as his manhood stirred and reared boldly. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and he could not help but marvel at the sensual way she kept her full lips moist and glistening with the very tip of her suggestive tongue. She had deep set, dark, flashing eyes with a slender face that was framed with silky black, waist-length hair. And try as he may, he could not keep his eyes off of her perfectly molded, firm breasts, her tiny waist, or the way her hot-pink and black spandex suit revealed the most shapely legs that he'd ever seen. Her sensuality was overwhelming, and for a moment, Randy forgot about Karen, and the real reason they had traveled so far to Detroit….
The Awakening of Hanna Lee By Herbert R. Metoyer When the baby was born, Lou took one look at it, sat down, and cried like a baby. Three weeks later, when it was obvious to everyone that the baby was not his, he left ¾ caught the Missouri-Pacific for Chicago. Left, while she was at work ironing white folk's clothes. Left, without one word of good-bye, just a hastily written note saying that he had borrowed the sixty dollars she had saved. A real low-down, dirty, sweet-talking, bastard. She never heard from Lou again, not once in all the eight years that had gone by. What a fool she had been.For a long time, she waited, hoping for his return. Sometimes, on especially lonely days, she used to get up and walk clear across town to the train depot just to watch it pull into the station. And when the conductors, dressed in their square, black caps, had unloaded and loaded their passengers, she would stand in the middle of the tracks watching in the distance long after they and their train had departed, cursing, and wondering how many fucking-fools it took to lay the many miles of hot, steel rails it took to run all the way up to Chicago. But, she didn't do that anymore. She stopped once she realized how foolish she was being. Nowadays, she didn't even go near the station, and on the days when the wind carried the sound of their steam whistles to her side of town, she would press the palms of her hands to her ears to blot out their sickening wail. How she hated railroad trains ¾ the way they screamed into the station wheezing and hollering, and blowing coal soot and smoke on everybody. She hated them too, for the effect they had on the little black boys who churned through the neighborhood, all in a line, their hands on each other's hips, playing choo-choo train, and dreaming hopeless dreams of becoming conductors, firemen, and engineers when all the best of them could ever hope to be was nothing but a shit-eating, ass-kissing porter. But most of all, she hated them because they took people away to faraway places ¾ like Detroit and Chicago….
Greenfields By Robert K. Jones No one told us. They just arrived one day -- a day still wet from an early rain. We gathered quickly and stood somewhere between fascination and awe. Some of us began to cry. The rest fought back their tears with that unique childhood defiance that displayed neither hatred nor fear; each of us expressing an exciting sorrow bound up with feelings that we could not yet define.In a trembling voice, and to no one in particular, Dennis Miller asked, "Why are they doing it?" "They's white, ain't they?" said Lester Adams, a hard, ashy-black boy with hot, black eyes. "They can do anything they want to." Their big, smoky machines tore through our Greenfields, pushed over our trees and raked them through our berry bushes. Endless iron feet scrubbed out our paths and wide steel mouths clamped onto and devoured our fragile landmarks. The faint traces of our being, our signatures to the world that we were here, at this place, were mangled. Distortion grew into chaos, and soon we recognized nothing of our beloved Greenfields….
A Letter To William By Peggy A. Moore My mother, Anna Mae, had creamy skin, the color of fresh buttermilk, and jet-black hair that was smooth and soft to the touch as silk. Although she was a small woman who barely stood five-feet tall, she was truly a giant in every other respect. Each afternoon around three o'clock, you'd find Anna Mae outside of the factory gate waiting anxiously for my father, Benjamin, with a brown paper lunch bag in her hand. Promptly at three-thirty, the old factory whistle would blow, signaling the end of the daytime shift. Anna Mae would scan the mass of human, sweating flesh that poured out through the plant gates until she caught sight of her Benjamin. Then, she would rush up to him, kiss his covered-with-grease cheeks, hand him his lunch, then wave good-bye as he boarded the streetcar that would take him across town to work yet another eight-hour shift. With Benjamin on his way, Anna Mae would stand watching the congested, swaying, squealing streetcar until it was well out of sight. Then, she would smooth her neatly starched, cotton house-dress down with the flats of her hands, toss her head high, and head for home….
The Washtenaw Incident By Michael B. Tolliver Melvin arrived on the scene several paces ahead of Bobby, fired at the coon and missed. Before he could fire a second shot, the coon released the dog and scurried away into the undergrowth. Both men ran to the spot where the whining dog lay. Blood spurted from the open wound about its neck, and it was plain to see that the dog was mortally wounded. Solemnly, Bobby pointed his AK-47 at the animal's head. "Sorry I got you in this mess, boy," he said as he closed his eyes and fired one round, point blank, into the dog's head. The dog whined no more. "An eye for a fucking eye," Bobby said in rage as he shoved a fresh clip of ammo into his AK-47. "It's killing time! They kill one of yours, goddamnit, you kill ten of them!" Melvin, looking at Bobby, watched as Bobby removed a bandanna from his pocket and tied it around his head like a sweat band. For a split second, he was back in Nam, listening to the same pep talk, trying to get himself emotionally prepared for another patrol through the insect infested jungle, wading waist high through rice paddies, and poking into well camouflaged tunnels and bunkers, and... "Time to kick ass!" Bobby shouted, moving quickly to follow the bloodstained trail of the raccoon. Somewhat apprehensively, Melvin followed. "Hey, Bobby, slow down." Melvin yelled. "This ain't the fucking Nam. This is Ann Arbor, Michigan." Bobby, however, was out of hearing range. So, Melvin slowed his pace to a leisurely walk. Something's wrong. This shit ain't going down right, he said to himself…. END:
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copyright 1996 Detroit Writer's Guild |
